


Coming Back To You

by MissCrazyWriter321



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But not either of our beloved idiots, Character Death, Christmas, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grief, Pining, Ridiculously Slow Burn, Slow Burn, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 21:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16503227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/pseuds/MissCrazyWriter321
Summary: If you love someone, let them go. If they're meant to be yours, they'll come back to you.No one talks about how much letting go hurts.





	Coming Back To You

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone. If any of you didn't see my Tumblr announcement, I'm leaving fandom, at least for the moment. I guess, in a way, I'm letting go of it, and really hoping it comes back to me. But that's what I feel led to do, so that's what I'm doing.
> 
> That said, I signed up for the Timeless Birthday Fanwork Exchange, and I try to honor my commitments. So, this is a gift for the dear S. S. Garcy, whose prompt was "Garcy Christmas." This actually covers a few different Christmases over the years. 
> 
> As a final note, the character death mentioned in the tags is Wyatt. I wasn't sure how to tag it, because he's not really a major character in this fic, but I promise, I didn't just kill him off for fun. This whole idea sprung from all of the wariness about the Timeless movie. It explores what might happen if they do end up together, in a way that still ends with a Garcy happy ending. Needless to say, there's a lot of angst in this one, so strap yourselves in and enjoy the ride. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my ideas.

In the end, he doesn't tell her.

Rittenhouse falls, the world is saved, and he doesn't tell her he loves her.

Instead, he holds her close, pressing his forehead against hers, and wills her to understand. He doesn't deserve her, could never hope to do so, and he isn't about to tell her how much she means to him, but she must know. Surely, by now, she knows. He's never answered that fateful question, but with each passing day, it must have becomes more clear why, exactly, he's there. When the chance to save his family is gone forever, and he never once considers leaving, it must be enough.

He doesn't tell her how he feels, but he thinks it so desperately, she must sense it.

But she says nothing, and the moment slips away, as do her arms around him.

“We won,” he whispers, and it mostly doesn't feel hollow.

“Yeah. We did.” Her smile is tired and worn, but stunning nonetheless, and a welcome relief after all of her tears. “It's over.”

She only means the fight against Rittenhouse. Of course she does. And yet, he cannot shake the feeling of dread creeping up inside of him. The war, horrible as it was, brought them together. With it over….

He would never wish for another day of war, but for another moment by her side, it might be worth it.

-

They all stay in touch. Rufus and Jiya, Mason, Lucy, Wyatt, and even Agent Christopher. Somehow, it surprises him more than it should. But then, they are the only ones who remember, the only ones who truly understand the nightmares they've been through. In a way, they're all alone.

But at least they have each other.

Lunch with Lucy happens quite by accident the first time, when they run into each other shopping, (almost literally; his nose is buried in his list, and her endearing clumsiness has lessened over the years, but not fallen away completely,) but it quickly becomes a habit. At least once a week they meet up, talk about how things are going, and share fond memories.

It's no surprise that it's the highlight of his week.

The others never come. Whether they know about it or not, he isn't sure, but for a couple of hours a week, he doesn't have to share. Her attention is fixed solely on him, and it’s a wonderful balm to the scars littering his heart, the aching wounds that will never completely go away. He hopes that time means half as much to her as it does to him, but he doesn't dare presume.

Once, he almost tells her, comes close enough that he can feel the words on his tongue. They're laughing over a shared memory, and she playfully smacks his arm, fingers brushing over his skin. His breath catches, and he opens his mouth, but then her phone buzzes, and a name flashes across the screen: Wyatt.

“Sorry, I have to take this,” she says sheepishly, already sliding her finger across the screen. His stomach turns, but he smiles, giving what he hopes is an understanding nod.

The conversation is short, not more than five minutes, but by the end, he's quite sure. Her cheeks are pink, and the soft smile on her face is nothing he's ever been able to cause. (After everything, she chooses Wyatt, and he's nowhere near foolish enough to think he deserves her, but he still has to fight the urge to hide her away from the man who broke her heart.)

“He was just checking on me,” she explains, and he forces away any jealousy. They have this, here. It's enough. It has to be.

“How is he?” He asks gently, bracing himself. For the rest of the meal, he listens to her rambling about Wyatt, and hopes that she cannot hear his heart breaking.

-

“Wyatt proposed to me.” She's nervous, pushing food around on her plate, avoiding his eyes. “I said yes.”

He's almost thankful that she isn't looking at him, because he doesn't have it in him to school his expression in that moment. Sure, he knew that Lucy and Wyatt were back together. Everyone did. But he had no idea that they were so serious again. It's a huge step, but then, they've loved each other for ages. Literal centuries, in a way, thanks to time travel.

“I know,” she adds, a bit sharply, “He hurt me. But things with Jessica were… Complicated. We've talked about it, and we're okay. He isn't going back to her again.”

More like the other way around, as he understands it, but he doesn't say that. Instead, he swallows, as her behavior starts to click in his mind. She's not afraid of hurting him-has no idea that's even a possibility-but she's expecting him to judge her. To try to talk her out of it.

As if he has any right to do either.

“Congratulations,” he whispers, and the word feels like sandpaper, but it makes her smile, so it's worth it. She relaxes, a little, but there's still a hint of uncertainty in her he can’t quite read. “Lucy?“

She traces a finger along the tablecloth, and his eyes follow the moment. The fabric is green and faded, just a shade lighter than her dress, fraying at the edges. Still holding together, though. Just like her. Just like them.

“It's just… It feels like, after everything, you’re my best friend. And I keep thinking…” She trails off, and his mind races, trying to fill in the blank. Where on earth is she going with this? (Some stupid, selfish part of him hopes that she'll ask him to stop her, to give her a reason not to marry Wyatt. It's ridiculous-she's already said yes, after all-but if she asks, he'll tell her. He'll tell her everything, without hesitation. He loves her, he needs her, he can't lose her…)

“Will you walk me down the aisle?” The words come out in a rush, and it takes him a few seconds to register their meaning. She must take his silence as rejection, because after a moment, the rambling starts. “I mean, you don't have to. And you don't have to give me an answer right now; we're not even getting married until December. I know it's kind of weird, because you're definitely not like my father-” And he's grateful for small mercies, at least. “But besides Wyatt, I'm pretty sure you know me better than anyone, and I just-”

“Lucy,” he interrupts, but gently. His mind is swimming from the word jumble she's just thrown at him, but one thing stands out: She's the love of his life, and she wants him to stand beside her as she marries the love of hers.

(He’s the worst kind of fool, and he knows it, but her fear is written all over her face, fear of rejection, of abandonment, and he can't be the one to do that to her.)

“I’d be honored.” Once again, she smiles, bright and brilliant, and it aches, but he doesn't falter. “Just tell me Wyatt isn't wearing that tacky suit Mason got him for Christmas. Honestly, it should come with a warning label.”

She laughs at that, warm and full, and smacks his arm playfully. “He loves that suit,” she chides, and he rolls his eyes.

By some miracle, he makes it home before he falls apart.

-

Lucy Preston and Wyatt Logan are married in a small chapel on Christmas Eve, two years after the fall of Rittenhouse. She looks absolutely radiant, of course, and there's no denying the pure joy in Wyatt's eyes. The man made his mistakes, certainly, but he loves Lucy. (He does wear the suit, and it's hideous, but Lucy doesn't seem to mind.)

Garcia walks her down the aisle, of course. He promised, after all. He locks away every touch, every brush of fingers, every whiff of her perfume. They'll never be this close again, he knows. For his sanity, if nothing else. But he will keep these moments in his heart forever, right next to those of his family.

“If anyone has any reason why these two should not be wed, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

He doesn't even consider it. His broken heart doesn't hold a candle to the joy radiating from her features, and he won't dare take that away from her. They kiss, and he can't bring himself to look, but the cheers that echo through the chapel are inescapable.

“Thank you,” she says after, a muffled whisper against his chest. She's hugging him so close, he almost can't breathe, and he never ever wants her to let go. When she does, it really will be over, and he tightens his hold at the thought.

Finally, she pulls away, and disappears with Wyatt into the night.

He tells himself that he will not go to the Christmas party Mason's hosting the next day, the one the happy couple has promised to attend. He will not go and see her, he will not watch her like a lovesick puppy as she leans into Wyatt's side, and he will not give her the last piece of Mrs. Carlin's homemade pie just because she asks.

(He is a filthy liar. Her smile when he slides the pie toward him makes the growing ache inside him worth it.)

-

They drift apart after the wedding.

He doesn't mean for it to happen, not like this, but it's not exactly surprising. She's rarely free anymore, and when she is, Wyatt is by her side. It’s just too much to see them together, and it's hardly appropriate for him to see her alone anymore. (Not like before. Not just the two of them, locked in their own little bubble, away from the world.)

Weekly lunches become monthly lunches, and soon, even those fall away. They still text occasionally, but it isn't much, just a “Happy Birthday” here or a “Good luck on the interview” there. He's becoming a stranger to him, and he hates it, but there's nothing he can do to change it.

A year goes by, then two, and he would probably shut himself off from the world completely, if it wasn't for Rufus and Jiya. The fearless duo drag him out of his apartment, force him to join them for dinner, video games, and bonding, and he's never been more grateful to them. Whether they know what's wrong with him or not, he isn't sure, but he’d be surprised if they didn’t. Subtlety has never been his strong suit.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Lucy texts, and he realizes they haven't spoken in months. He misses her, more than he could have expected, but the thought of picking up the phone and calling seems impossible. What would he say?

Healing comes slowly, and some days, he thinks he might be moving backward, but with Rufus and Jiya's help, the broken pieces of his heart are once again coming together. He has lost Lucy Preston, and he has to accept that.

Then, that Christmas Eve, a fierce knock on his door tears him from his thoughts.

It's urgent, desperate, and he sets his book aside with a frown. The clock on his mantle says it's nearly midnight; who on earth could be here at this hour?

He opens the door, and his breath leaves him in a rush. The very woman who has been haunting him all this time is standing right in front of him, with tears streaming down her cheeks, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Forget propriety.

He draws her to his chest, tentatively at first, then with an overwhelming strength as she burrows in. “He's dead,” she manages, and his world tilts on its head. “Wyatt is dead.”

It comes out in fits and starts: A car crash, hours before. A policeman on her doorstep, with apologies and a grim expression. After all of the wars, all of the danger, all of the fear, Wyatt Logan is taken out by a careless driver. It doesn't seem fitting end for the man.

“Can I stay here tonight?” Her voice is small and scared, the first sign that she's felt their distance as well. Does she honestly think he could tell her no?

He doesn't, and she falls asleep on his couch, crying into his worn turtleneck. He tucks her into his bed, settles on the sofa, and stares at the patterns on the ceiling. He doesn't get much sleep, that night.

-

Christmas Day is awful, moreso than the holiday ever should be. Lucy alternates before sobbing and staring listlessly at nothing, waves of grief tearing through her. She spends more time in his arms than out of them, and it wreaks havoc on his heart. After so long accepting that he cannot touch her, the constant contact is more than a little overwhelming. 

Yes, he wanted her back, but not like this. He would give anything to take this pain from her, to bring Wyatt back into her life, but he knows that can't be done. Instead, he strokes her hair, murmuring to her in Croatian, desperately trying to offer her something solid to hold onto.

“Does it ever stop hurting?” She asks him at one point, and the ring in his bedroom flickers through his mind.

“No,” he answers, though he wishes he could tell her something else. “Not completely. But… There is healing, Lucy. I promise.”

She looks at him with wide, tearful eyes, and he cups her cheek, running a thumb gently across the skin. “It's okay to cry,” he murmurs. “Hm? Let it out. It's okay.” Whether she believes him or not, he isn't sure, but she falls back into him, muffled sobs overtaking her once more. It isn't how he'd ever planned to spend Christmas, but it's what she needs, so he doesn't hesitate to give it. They’ve always been alike in ways, and he's always liked that she understands him, but no one should have to understand this pain.

(Especially not Lucy. The woman deserves nothing but good things, and after everything she's been through, it seemed like she was finally getting them. Until now.)

When evening falls, she goes home, though he offers to let her stay another night. But Lucy Preston-Logan has cried, and now she has to do something. There are arrangements to make, people to notify, and Jessica to try and track down. It speaks to the life she's had to live, the soldier she's had to become, that she so desperately needs to move to the next thing.

Survival mode doesn't allow much time to grieve.

He is left with an empty house, a bed that smells like her, and no idea of what's going to happen next.

-

The funeral is small, but touching, and Wyatt's old friend David gives a heartbreaking speech about the kind of man Wyatt was. Not for the first time, Garcia regrets the fact that he never got to know the man better, that he locked him in the box of villain and refused to let him out. Lucy sits beside him, stone-faced, clutching his hand almost tight enough to bruise.

She only leaves his side once, to sing the final song. It's soft and melodic, and her raw voice tugs at every heartstring inside him. He knows he's not the only one wiping his eyes when it's over; everyone seems to be.

Things change after that, in many different ways.

Lunches with Lucy start again, at first because he wants to make sure she's eating enough. She looks too thin, and it worries him, reminds him of the days in the bunker where she lived on vodka and rage. They eat together more frequently than they have since those days, at least four or five times a week.

She sells her house, says it reminds her too much of Wyatt, and buys a small apartment.

(He helps her with everything: Packing, apartment-hunting, and of course, meal provision. Sometimes he brings take-out, but the way she lights up at his homemade dinners is more than enough of a reason to keep making them. More than once, she shatters, the memories too much for her, and he holds her through every storm.)

Months seem to fly and crawl away, all at once, and before he knows it, Rufus and Jiya are making comments about how he and Lucy are joined at the hip. They're playful comments, and he knows they mean well, but he quickly shuts them down. He had his chance, and he lost it. The last thing he wants is for her to figure out how he feels now, when she needs him more than ever. He’s her friend, her support, her confidante. He won't risk that.

“Listen, man,” Rufus tells him one day, surprisingly serious, “It’s been almost a year. And I’m not saying grief has a time limit, but… Just don't keep living in the past, okay?”

It's said without a hint of humor. The days where time travel was real, where living in the past was something they did regularly, feel more like a distant dream than a true memory for him, and he suspects Rufus feels the same.

Still, he doesn't promise anything. He can't. This is, as it has always been, in her hands.

-

He slips.

Eight years of knowing her, six years since the fall of Rittenhouse, and two since the death of Wyatt, and he's never once been so clumsy. But it's a week until Christmas, and they're out shopping for last-minute gifts. (Together, the way they've been doing almost everything these days.) Shopping turns into lunch, and lunch turns into dessert, in the form of two slices of pumpkin pie.

Lucy eats hers, then eyes his half-finished slice carefully, and he doesn't bother to hide his fond smile as he pushes it toward her. (Frankly, he's so glad she's eating again, he can't bring himself to care.)

She doesn't notice, of course. She never has.

But the waitress does.

“Aren't you two adorable?” She's an older lady, with gray hair curled into a bun atop her head. She smiles warmly, looking at them with a hint of nostalgia. “My husband looked at me the exact same way his whole life. That's how we know they love us, right?”

Lucy freezes. Blinks up at him uncertianly, as the waitress moves on to the next table. It's not the first time they've been mistaken for a couple, certainly, and he could easily just laugh it off. She'd believe him. But his throat feels just a little too tight, and he can't bring himself to even move.

Love.

After so many years thinking it, feeling it, looking away in the darkest corners of his mind like a dirty secret, it's scorching to hear it said aloud so carelessly.

“I-” He tries, because he has to say something, but no more words come. “I-” Nothing. He drops his gaze to the table, and waits. For her judgement, her anger, her disgust. Whatever she throws at him, he deserves it. He knows this. After the things he's done, he doesn't deserve her.

She's quiet for a long time, apart from her shaky breathing. The minutes drag on like torture, and he has the inane thought that he would rather be shot at again than go through this. Finally, she speaks. “How long?” On the surface, her voice is calm, but he knows better. He's heard this forced lightness before, knows all too well the utter terror it's concealing, and inevitability is hurtling toward him at full speed. “How long have you… How long?”

He swallows. “Lucy,” he tries, desperate to salvage the situation, but she cuts him off sharply.

“How long?” She repeats, and he sighs.

“Always.”

It might not technically be accurate; what he felt for the woman in her journal was probably more idealised infatuation than anything. But it seemed like love at the time, and he can't imagine calling it anything else.

Her quiet gasp pierces him. She truly had no idea, and now, once again, he's lost her. This time, it's all his fault, and there's nothing he can do to change it. An apology lingers on his tongue, but he’s not sorry for loving her, can't possibly regret that, and he doesn't know what else to say. So he says nothing. Just waits.

“I-I need to go,” she stammers, and panic shoots through him.

“Lucy, wait, please-”

But she's already out the door, nearly tripping on her way. He absently pushes his empty plate away from him, feeling more than a little empty himself.

-

He waits two full hours to text her, then another two to call, but she doesn't answer. By the next day, she isn't even getting his texts anymore, and her phone is going straight to voicemail.

He wants to respect her, to give her space, if that's what she needs, but he can't shake the horrifying image of her body in a ditch somewhere, or bleeding out in her apartment. She was clearly shaken when she left the restaurant, and he can never shake the feeling of unease that comes from war. Too many possibilities war in his head, and finally, he drives to her apartment.

No one answers when he knocks, which isn't exactly surprising, but also isn't reassuring. He knocks once more, just for good measure, then clears his throat. “Lucy? I don't-I don't know if you can hear me, but… I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want, but I just… Please say something, so that I know you're-” His voice catches. “Alive.”

For a long, terrifying moment, there's only silence. Then, so soft he can barely hear it, a watery voice drifts through the door. “I don't know what to say.”

It's enough.

The finality of the words is suffocating, and he can feel his heart breaking all over again, (he didn't know it could still do that,) but it's steady and real and ALIVE. She's alive. That's enough.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Unsurprisingly, she doesn't answer.

-

Christmas Day finds Garcia Flynn laying on his couch, staring listlessly into the lights of the tree. Lucy helped him decorate it, and he can still hear her laughter as he wrapped a garland around her shoulders. Everywhere he looks, he can see traces of her: The painting she bought him, because it reminded her of him. The presents she wrapped, and the one with her name on it. The nativity scene his mother painted, the one Lucy had touched so gently, tracing her fingertips along the ceramic.

She's supposed to be coming over for lunch today. At least that was the plan, before the Day Everything Went Wrong. He has no idea if she's still planning on coming or not, but, well…

He isn't holding his breath.

The knock on his door startles him, and for a moment, he wonders who it could be. Probably just Rufus and Jiya, he tells himself, scolding his foolish hope. They're just here to drag him out of his shell.  Lucy probably told them what happened, and they want to help. (But it doesn't sound like them. That knock is almost as familiar as his own, but he doesn't dare think-)

It's her.

“Lucy?” She's bundled in a burgundy coat and hat, a present tucked under her arm, and she looks half-ready to bolt when he opens the door. He's not sure what that means, not sure why she's here, but hope claws unrelentingly inside. “Come in.”

He doesn't bother to hide his relief when she does, leaving her present under the tree, settling carefully on his couch. She still seems uncomfortable, but at least she's here.

“I didn't know if I’d see you today,” he admits, for want of something better to say.

She blinks, a bit uncertainly. “I didn't either.”

Three small words, but the weight of them hits him squarely in the chest. Just because she's here doesn't mean that everything is back to normal, and he has a ways to go if he wants to salvage this relationship.

The problem is, he has no idea how to start. What is he supposed to say? It's not like he can promise to stop loving her; he won't make promises he's physically incapable of keeping.

“Do you want some coffee?” He reaches for the first grasp of normality he can find, and she nods, a hint of gratefulness in her eyes. He makes the drink mechanically, trying to quiet the pounding in his heart. It would help if he had some idea of what she expects, but he's at a loss.

Finally, they sit across from each other, drinks in hand. She clutches hers tightly, but doesn't take a sip, seems to be trying to work up the courage to say something. After a couple of false starts, she manages.

“When you said ‘always’...”

He won't lie to her. Not anymore. “I meant it.”

“But…” She shakes her head, automatically rejecting the idea. “The-the bunker. You never said-”

“I know.” Every missed opportunity burns along his skin, echoing through his mind. “I didn't think-after everything I did-”

She gasps suddenly, a low, horrified sound. “I made you walk me down the aisle.” Because of course, even in the midst of her own inner turmoil, Lucy could find a way to worry about someone else. “You must hate me.” 

It gives him pause for half a second-surely this has, if nothing else, told her that isn't the case-before it hits him: Her mother. She's so used to having love and anger wrapped up together, it wouldn't even occur to her that they wouldn't be. He can't stop himself from reaching out, cradling her face in both hands, and though she stills, she doesn't pull away.

“You didn't make me do anything,” he whispers. “You asked me to. And I did it. Because it made you happy. That's all I want, Lucy.” He desperately needs her to understand. “I just want you to be happy.”

Her eyes are watering, and he winces, because the last thing he ever meant to do was make her cry. But then she's in his arms, and you couldn't force him to pull away. He cups the back of her head, and she nuzzles into his shirt, holding on for dear life. He holds back just as tightly, can feel her trembling against him, and presses a feather-light kiss to the top of her head.

“You know,” she says, and he has to strain to hear her, “I spent the first half of the week thinking it was crazy. I mean, you and me? Us? It was-it was crazy.”

He's sure she can hear his heart hammering under her ear as he asks, “And the second half?” It's obvious that he's fishing. Probably praying. He doesn’t bother to hide it.

“I spent thinking it was crazy…” His heart drops. “That we haven't gotten here sooner.” What? Long-muffled hope claws free, and he goes quiet, listening to every word she says. “I mean, after everything we've been through together, it… It makes sense. And I…” She swallows, but says nothing else. After a moment, she pulls away, searching his eyes carefully.

He lets her look. Tries to process her words. It sounds like she's saying something he's long given up hope on hearing, and his mind instantly rejects the possibility. But then her hand is on his cheek, and she's leaning forward, nose brushing his.

Could this actually be happening?

He wants to believe, but he doesn't want her to do something out of guilt or obligation, so he stops her. A gentle touch to the shoulder is enough; she pauses, eyes darting up to his.

“Lucy, you don't-you don't have to-”

“I want to,” she says, quiet but fierce. “I just… Needed a little push to figure that out. That is,” she adds, suddenly unsure, “If you still-”

And all of his years of caution, of holding back, vanish in an instant in the face of her insecurity. He leans in, closing the gap. “Still,” he whispers against her mouth. “Always.”

The first brush of her lips against his steals his thoughts, for a long moment. After so long imagining, it doesn't quite seem real, and he sighs, threading his fingers through her hair, drawing her closer. She responds cautiously at first, but soon relaxes, hands coming to rest on his neck, brushing over the skin there. It's impossibly tender, and he takes his time, savoring the moment he never thought he'd have.

Finally, he pulls away, and it's his turn to search her eyes. They're soft and trusting, and just a little overwhelmed. (That's okay; he is, too.)

“Are we okay?”

He's been wondering the same thing, but she asks, and he feels a quiet certainty settling in him. “Yes,” he assures her. “We're okay.”

She beams, just for him.

 For the first time in what feels like years, he can breathe again.

-

She spends most of this Christmas in his arms as well, cuddled up beside him on the couch. It reminds him in ways of that fateful day, two long years before. But this one is marked with laughter and hope, and scattered kisses stolen throughout.

He gives her a necklace, and his laughter fills the apartment when he sees the gift she got him in return: A turtleneck sweater, identical to the one he left behind in the bunker.

It’s perfect, more than he's ever thought it could be, even as they share a moment of silence for those lost.

Wyatt. Lorena. Amy. Iris. Too many people lost over the years.

He's grateful that, at least, they've found each other.

(Rufus and Jiya are impossibly smug, and maybe a little relieved. He doesn't mind their teasing comments much, not with Lucy curled into his side.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> Guys, you don't understand how much I love all of you. Every beautiful reviewer, reader, and fellow shipper has made fandom such a wonderful place for me. I found it when I was 12 years old, many years ago, during one of the hardest times of my life. It gave me a place to hide away from all of the chaos around me, and I couldn't be more grateful. But in all that time, I never found a fandom like Timeless, so fiercely loyal and dedicated. It's been an honor knowing all of you, and I hope to be able to come back some day. Take care.


End file.
